Red Spots
by Iloveplotbunnies
Summary: A collection of one-shots, involving different genres and characters. Next: Cursed, "If he has CURSED above his heart and Lisbon has SAINTLY above hers, then Red John must have MONSTER above his."
1. Bloody Red Roses

**Title: **Bloody Red Roses

**Rating: **T

**Summary: **he wasn't the only person who thanked you, was he? Written for the Paint It Red December 2011 Challenge.

**Characters: **Red John, Patrick Jane, Teresa Lisbon

**Spoilers: **Set after 4x10

**Word Count: **323

**Author's Note: **I want to thank frogster for the title for my new collection of one-shots and drabbles. :)

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><p>When Patrick Jane remembered his tragic past via your hand; he wasn't the only person who thanked you, was he?<p>

Your precious team, of course, was _extremely _thankful for the return of the so-called "better" Jane. They didn't hear the full story from you of _how _he was returned to his old self, because you felt horrible—almost as if you had killed an innocent, happy creature and had thrived off it—so, you merely accepted the gratitude with a thinly veiled smile, and you bottled up the truth.

Patrick Jane, on the other hand, applauded you for your manipulation—for you _did _learn from the best— and for the week after his memory had returned, you found little trinkets of appreciation on your desk; origami animals, bear claws, warm coffee but it didn't stop the guilt—you remember his last words to you about being "happy", what kind of a person (let alone _friend_) steals happiness?—so you brushed off his many thanks with a simple "no problem".

Out of everybody who thanked you—you never quite expected the man who had caused so much heartache and pain, to thank you either.

For one week exactly, after Jane had remembered, you found a vase of blood red roses on your desk and attached was a simple white card.

The white card held his signature; the bloody smiley face, too small to be drawn in blood—probably sketched in red ink—and you do not need to be Patrick Jane to understand that his intended message isn't death.

His message is thank you, and suddenly you feel less guilty—less horrible.

You quickly dump the flowers, but keep the card for yourself—just to remind yourself that if you hadn't manipulated the game, if you _hadn't _killed his happiness by taking him back to Malibu—one of you could—_would_—have died.

And you would do anything to keep him alive, wouldn't you?


	2. Gods of the Underworld

**Title: **Gods of the Underworld

**Rating: **T

**Disclaimer: **It's _safe _to say that I really don't own The Mentalist…but I'm sure you already know that.

**Summary: **"Together," she feels his hot breath linger on her ear again. "We shall rule the Underworld." For tromana.

**Characters: **Teresa Lisbon, Red John

**Word Count: **926

**Notes: **

Thanks to Miss Peg, Kaoh, MissDonnie_, _tromana, Aeidhryn for reviewing _Bloody Red Roses_.

So…this is one of the many holiday fics that I offered to write back in December, and even though I wrote it a month ago, I am _now _in the process of cross-posting them all. Most of them are Mentalist related, actually.

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><p>The way he phrases his words makes a shiver dance up her spine, and causes her heartbeat to quicken—though Teresa Lisbon cannot dis-concern whether the shiver is in response to sexual pleasure as he racks the soft pad of his thumb under the soft swell of her breasts or in disgust, as what he makes her feel shouldn't be possible.<p>

For Red John is nothing more than a psychopath, who has killed over twenty individuals; mostly women—not limited to Samuel Bosco and his team, but also Jane's—her _coworker_, and her _friend's_—wife and daughter, years ago. For Red John is the man who not only had a hand in her disappearance, but he is also somebody who shouldn't be pressed up against her—his voice in her ear, whispering unintelligible nothings as his hot breath lingers causing another shiver to rip through her body.

He shouldn't be allowed to paint himself into a human being; he should be a monster; not a God.

He snakes his hand just the under the swell of her left breast again, and she can't help but try and arch her body off the bed as he starts to speak again. "Beautiful doesn't even _begin _to describe you, Teresa." He nips playfully at the side of her neck, and she wants so badly to shoot him—to put a bullet through his head, and watch him writhe in pain—watch him _bleed_—before watching the slow movement of his chest—rise _up _and _down _and _down _and _up_—come to a sputtering stop, for having put _every _single member within her unit in such pain—for making them wonder if they'll ever find her alive, or just an empty hull—throat slit, killed in the way he kills of his women, and his _calling card _lingering above her naked, battered body—left to remind her team that evil does have a name, does have a form in the world. "You are everything a man desires in a perfect woman; beauty, intelligence, and…" He shifts his mouth to nip at her bare earlobe. "An excellent partner in bed."

But even if she had her gun, she wouldn't shoot him—she _couldn't_—and they both knew that. He had spared her life, and in some twisted way, she felt indebted to him and she knew in some twisted way, he had come to appreciate her for the tool she was.

For most importantly of all, Red John knew nothing of love. He only knew the appreciation of beautiful and unattainable things, and she _is _something unattainable.

She doesn't reply to his comment, but the sudden heat starting to pool beneath the paleness of her black and blue stained cheeks tells a different story entirely.

"Why are you blushing, Teresa?" He questions her, as he shifts to repress his warm bare chest against her bare back and she doesn't answer him. Her quietness is not because she has nothing to say—in fact, she wants nothing more to move her lips and tell him how she truly feels toward this entire _arrangement _(because calling it anything more than an arrangement, makes it sound as if she actually wants to be there.)—but she knows the price that she will pay if she speaks out of bounds.

(The colorful blotches that adorn her skin tell that story, all too well).

She remembers back to when she had first stepped into the bedroom; he had demanded that she be quiet and complacent—for the bed, as he had told her while he stroked her hair and held her at a fingertip distance after putting her through hell hours before, is a place where she must pleasure him for he is a God, and she is nothing more than a mere mortal playing a foolish game, at a foolish price—her breath hitches in her throat as she feels his hands moving again, and she wonders just what her team would say if they _ever _discovered the truth.

He pauses in the gentle movement of his hand and she can feel him sliding one of her nipples in between the crevices of his cool, tough fingers—the pressure he applies is enough to make her whimper—he is a sadist; every time he decides she is not following orders or _answering _questions to his exact satisfaction he gifts her a punishment, and he gets off onit.

(Though she knows she shouldn't, she briefly wonders if that is how he feels when he kills and it's enough to make her sick.)

"I think I asked you a question, Persephone."

She burrows her brows—the name sounds familiar, but her mind is too foggy to allow for clarity.

"Persephone?" Her voice is soft, but unyielding.

"Have you not heard the story of Persephone, Teresa?" She doesn't immediately reply, he continues on. "Persephone was the Greek Goddess of Spring Growth in Greek Mythology; she was portrayed as extremely beautiful, but of course—she _was _the daughter of Zeus and Demeter." He pauses. "One day, as the myth tells, Persephone was playing in a forest when Hades seized her as his bride and carried her off to the Underworld to rule besides him." She hears him chuckle softly. "You both share a lot in common, you know? For Persephone couldn't escape from Hades, and _you _could never escape from me." Her breath hitches in her throat, and she suddenly can't breathe. "Together," she feels his hot breath linger on her ear again. "We shall rule the Underworld."


	3. Shatter

**Title: **Shatter

**Rating: **T

**Disclaimer: **Yeah, right.

**Summary: **But deniability meant absolutely _nothing _if (or when) you are six-feet under. For watchyouwalk.

**Characters: **Teresa Lisbon, Team

**Word Count: **1,319

**Notes: **

Thanks to tromana and Aeidhryn for reviewing _Gods of the Underworld_.

Another holiday fic with the prompt of _how many times can I break 'til I shatter? _

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><p><strong>I— <strong>

"Why do you think he saved her?"

Lisbon paused at the sound of Wayne Rigsby's voice from within the kitchenette; the hallway between the kitchenette and the bullpen was empty (except for her) and the dim lights overhead buzzed with electricity. It was late, and she wore a frown at the thought that her team would stand around to discuss the same subject everybody else had discussed all day long: Jane and his killing Hardy to save her life.

She shook her head, and nearly turned on her heels—it wasn't right to listen to a private conversation. It was such a Jane thing to do—but Van Pelt's gentle response stopped her from leaving.

"Why wouldn't he save her, Wayne?" Lisbon could imagine the two sitting close together; knees slightly touching, eyes avoiding, trying to keep their conversation hidden from not _only _their boss, but the consultant also. Although, Jane had disappeared off to somewhere…so, worrying about Jane eavesdropping would be pointless. "Jane is her friend."

She scoffed silently.

Jane saw nobody but himself as a friend, and in the two years they had been working together, truth be told—she was no closer to trusting him, than he was closer to trusting her. Their relationship, as unorthodox and unhealthy as it _truly _was, was based on her professionalism and his mockery of the entire system she had built her morals upon.

He _had _saved her, but so what?

(She tried not to imagine what would have happened if Jane had thought Sheriff Hardy's information on Red John was more important than her life.)

And because she was sogood at being purely professional, she pushed the borderline dark and lingering thoughts to the back of her mind and thought of the court case she'd be dealing with in the morning as she turned on her heels, and hurried back toward her office.

**II—**

"Do you think she'll be okay?"

Lisbon found herself, once again, eavesdropping on a conversation being held in the dimly lit parking lot. It was late, and she clenched the folders to her chest as she heard Van Pelt question whoever was standing across from her.

She was a _little _weary, yes—but it was to be expected; in the past seventy-two hours, she had been accused of murdering a well-known child rapist, she failed a polygraph, had her gun and badge taken away from her, and Dr. Roy Carmen had used their mandatory sessions as a way to drug her.

"She'll be fine." Cho responded back.

She smiled swiftly.

Her breakdown in the CBI had only been used to bait Carmen for a confession—Jane had explained, after he had hypnotized her and after he had been asked to leave her home that it seemed as if somebody was trying to discredit her—and before Carmen had even confessed to his killing the child rapist; she felt raw.

Eventually, she would be fine…but for now?

She just wanted to forget.

(She tried not to imagine what would have happened if Jane's plan hadn't managed to get a confession out of Roy Carmen)

And because she was so good at pretending, she pushed the thoughts of the alternate outcome to the back of her mind and focused on the gnawing hunger in the pit of her stomach, as she turned in the direction of her own vehicle.

**III—**

"Is she ready?"

Lisbon stared at her own reflection from within the CBI bathroom; it was late, and she was alone—aside from Jane (and now Cho) who both stood outside the bathroom, waiting for her to reemerge. She leaned her midsection into the counter, and inhaled.

She absolutely loathed funerals, and it didn't matter how many she attended in her life—from childhood to now—they _never _got easier, and the pain was still there. In her mind, everybody would stand around the closed casket, dressed in their best to mourn somebody they either knew _really _well, or somebody who they didn't really know at all.

"I'd say when she comes out, she's ready."

She sniffed softly.

Samuel Bosco wasn't meant to die; it didn't matter if he was bordering on the age of fifty, or the fact that he had been cheating on his diet (or that he had been in love with her, while having been married to his wife, Mandy.) He still had _many _years ahead of him (both within the CBI, and life, itself), and those years could have saved Jane from getting vengeance on Red John…and Jane, _Jane_, who had listened to Rebecca's idle comparison between himself and the killer who killed his wife and daughter, and the subsequent knowledge that Red John had killed Bosco and his unit _for _him. It was all wrong, and it was all _very _screwed up.

Jane wasn't meant to carry the blame; _she was_.

If she hadn't allowed them all to get _too close _to Red John; Bosco would have never joined the CBI. Bosco would have never been shot, and Minelli would have never felt the need to retire from the CBI.

(She tried not to imagine the _what-if's_.)

And because she was so good at punishing herself, she pushed her thoughts of guilt to the back of her mind and stepped away from the stranger in the mirror. She had a funeral to attend, and somebody to console.

**IV—**

"I'm not trying to avoid her."

Lisbon stood outside Jane's attic, ready to knock; it was late, and she lowered her hand at the muffled voices beyond the slightly jarred door. She knew it was wrong to listen in on his conversation, but after the events of the past week—Kristina Frye's disappearance, his kidnapping, and his encounter with Red John—

She couldn't quite gain enough willpower to move her feet. Jane had been slowly pulling away from her—from them—and he had _never _said why. Instead, he had just gathered up most of his miscellaneous belongings from inside his unused desk and around his worn couch, and carried them all the way upstairs to the unused attic without informing anybody.

"You won't even talk to her." Rigsby threw in response.

She scowled spitefully.

As intelligent as Jane claimed to be, he truly was an idiot; how he couldn't even see that keeping secrets was a dangerous game for everybody involved was beyond her. Lisbon had given him her trust, and he had continued to throw her the line about giving her total deniability…but deniability meant absolutely _nothing _if (or when) you are six-feet under.

He obviously didn't care about them, so why should they care about him?

(She tried not to imagine Jane's habit of collecting secrets coming back to bury him into a hole.)

And because they were a _family _and _nobody _was perfect, she allowed the thoughts to fade from her mind with every single step away from his private space that she took.

**V—**

"Where is he?"

Lisbon glanced up from her hospital bed to stare at each and every single member of her unit; it was early, and she felt emotionally exhausted as she allowed her vision to sweep from Rigsby to Van Pelt to Cho in the hope that one of them would volunteer information.

She wondered if she had somehow stumbled into the middle of an endless nightmare. None of her nurses had offered to volunteer any information, and apparently neither would her team—she knew she had been shot (the ache in her shoulder told her _that _much), and she knew that Jane had asked her to redial a number on O'Laughlin's phone…but beyond that, she knew nothing.

"He's been arrested." Cho responded. "He killed somebody he claims to be Red John."

She saw sanguine.

And because her fears for Jane had finally become reality; she sent her team away, and allowed her vision to blur the moment the door clicked shut.


	4. Red Mistletoe and Purloined Muffins

**Title: **Red Mistletoe and Purloined Muffins

**Rating: **T

**Disclaimer: **Nope.

**Summary: **"You know what I mean, Jane." Lisbon replied. "I'm not bringing you a blueberry muffin for just undoing all your own heinous work in the first place."

**Characters: **Patrick Jane, Teresa Lisbon, Grace Van Pelt, Wayne Rigsby

**Word Count: **1,103

**Notes: **

Thanks to tromana and Aeidhryn for reviewing _Shatter_. It's much appreciated!

I don't really have _much _creatively to say here, so let's just head into the fic!

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><p>Lisbon didn't wait for permission to plop down next to Jane on his couch. Instead, she merely smiled and folded her hands across her abdomen as he stared toward the kitchenette—where Van Pelt and Rigsby stood awkwardly glancing between each other and up at the sprig of green and red mistletoe that had mysteriously appeared in the doorway overnight.<p>

"You had something to do with this, didn't you?" She watched him curl his lip into a small smirk, before she rolled her eyes in response. "You know as well as I do that office romance is…"

"Prohibited, forbidden, illegal, outlawed…" Jane paused to turn his head before he glanced at her. "I could pull out my thesaurus and continue this all night long, Lisbon. But the entire prohibited office romances rule mainly deals with the very fact that the Californian Bureau of Investigation has no daycare."

Lisbon snorted. "Be as that might, you really shouldn't do this to them." She refocused her attention on the two agents, who both seemed to be debating on if they should honor the tradition of kissing under the mistletoe or ignore the moment between them both. "Rigsby has a girlfriend, Jane."

"Yes, _Sara_." Jane replied, softly. "How long do you think _that _relationship will last?" Sarah _seemed _nice enough, but there was a rather large difference between "seeming" and "being" nice. "Personally? I give them until the beginning of spring."

"Relationships are not something you can bet on." Lisbon scoffed.

"Au Contra, Lisbon." Jane replied brightly. "You can bet on everything; horse races, turtle races, lotteries, office pools…"

"But, how much of that can you do _legally_?"

"You're the officer of the law, Lisbon." Jane answered back with a large smile. "You tell me." Lisbon narrowed her eyes. "Don't you wantyour employees happy?"

"At the expense of seeing mistletoe hanging _everywhere _until they actually kiss, no."

"You're no fun." Jane playfully pouted, before the pout transformed into a smirk. "However, I can understand your hesitation of being caught underneath the mistletoe…"

"Jane…" Lisbon warned.

He ignored her, as usual. "You're all about tradition, and who _knows _who you'd be stuck under the mistletoe with—it could be Cho, Rigsby, Agent Wainwright…" Lisbon threw him a dirty look. "Or even Van Pelt. Of course, I'm _pretty _sure that the mistletoe tradition does not extend to same-sex pairings."

"Funny." Lisbon gave in response.

Jane shrugged his shoulders. "I try."

"I'm sure you do." Lisbon briefly wondered why Jane hadn't included his own self on the list of people to be stuck under the mistletoe with, but then she realized that he rarely left his couch besides to go into the kitchenette—so, unless somebody planted mistletoe above his couch or at a crime scene (which she would _never _allow), there would be no way of allowing himself to be included in the age old tradition. It didn't matter though—mistletoe had absolutely no place within a government building and the awkwardly quick press of lips between Rigsby and Van Pelt explained why. "Rigsby and Van Pelt have participated in the yuletide tradition, now take it down."

Jane grinned. "Three weeks till Christmas, and you're already gunning for the role of the Grinch." Lisbon threw him yet another dirty look. "Does that make me Cindy Lou Who?"

"It makes you _something_, alright."

"How about this;" Jane offered. "I take down all the mistletoe within the kitchenette, and you bring me a blueberry muffin?"

"No."

"No?"

"Yes."

"Yes?"

"You _know _what I mean, Jane." Lisbon replied. "I'm not bringing you a blueberry muffin for just undoing all your own heinous work in the first place."

"Well," Jane answered, nonchalantly. "If you _want _to test out how the same-sex theory holds up under the tradition of a sprig of mistletoe…go right ahead, and be my guest."

"Fine." Lisbon stated. "I'll _bring _you a blueberry muffin, but _only _if you clean up _all _the mistletoe."

"With tea?" Jane inquired, hopefully.

"Don't press your luck."

"I took down _all _the mistletoe within the kitchenette, Lisbon." Jane told her, as he held out the sprigs in his hands for her to see. "Your coffee is now safe from hormonal rages." She nodded from behind her desk, as she continued to fill out forms. "Where's my payment? I've come to collect."

Lisbon paused to point at the white sack on her desk. "I'm always true to my word." Jane grabbed at the bag with a large smile.

"I really appreciate that, Lisbon." Jane responded warmly, as he opened the bag—only to discover that his blueberry muffin was _once again _a cranberry muffin. "Lisbon, do you need glasses?" Lisbon jerked her head up from the desk to stare at him, incredulously.

"Why would you even ask that?"

"This is a cranberry muffin." Jane answered, as he pulled the muffin from the bag to show her. "I asked for a _blueberry _muffin!—the cranberry and the blueberry are not siblings, they do not even belong in the same sentence together."

"Oh, I know." She glanced back down at her paperwork. "You're welcome."

"I took down the mistletoe, though!"

"Not all of it." Lisbon corrected him. "You somehow neglected to mention that you had snuck mistletoe into the third floor women's bathroom." Jane innocently glanced around as he began to stuff a piece of the muffin into his mouth—he was _so _busted. "Yes Jane. Van Pelt and I discovered it. _Together_."

Jane went completely silent for a few moments, before he began to howl with laughter—the bit of muffin completely swallowed and Lisbon grimaced. "I'm _so _glad that amuses you, because you have no idea where I found that muffin."

He stopped laughing. "Touché."

"In the near future," Lisbon lectured. "You _may _want to listen to me when I tell you take all the _mistletoe _down, before you come into collect your purloined prize."

Jane stared down at the white muffin bag on her desk, before he moved to study Lisbon's face. "Van Pelt found the mistletoe, didn't she?"

"Yes, she did."

"…and the two of you didn't…"

"No, we didn't."

"…so, my muffin really wasn't poisoned then?"

"Not at all." Jane glanced at the discarded white bag, before Lisbon pulled out a second white bag from one of her drawers and tossed it to him. "If I catch you hanging another sprig of mistletoe on this floor, I _will _have you sent to prison." Jane glanced between the blueberry muffin and Lisbon for a second, until she grew irritated. "What?"

"Is _this _one poisoned?"

Lisbon tilted her lips, but refused to respond.


	5. Drowning

**Title: **Drowning

**Rating: **T

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

**Summary: **you have become way too important to be tossed aside now. Lisbon/Red John.

**Characters: **Red John, Teresa Lisbon, Patrick Jane

**Notes: **

Thanks to Aeidhryn, krolinette, Frogster, TwilightLover-CarliseandEsme, and Rach112 for the lovely reviews!

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><p>He has been watching you from afar since was before you started to work on His case; truth be told, He found you a little endearing, at first. Perhaps, your irksome ability to be the <em>unsound<em> conscience to Mr. Jane, and new allowing the man a chance to pay his own hand at the already rolling game the man had started five years ago with his mouth—back when you were first stitching together your _precious _and _precocious _career within the California Bureau of Investigation—a string you must very well thank Him for pulling by repaying favors when the time is right—had something to do with it. But then, the rules changed halfway through and you involved yourself _so deeply _into a world of things you knew absolutely nothing of to 'save' a man, who you considered a close friend from becoming _anything _like Him.

He has thought about killing you many times before—whether it be by one of His many friends you had made contact with throughout the years (Hardy, Rebecca, O'Laughlin) or via His own hand but nothing _felt _right for a woman of your quality, and He was always about the mood, the setting, the poetic nature in which your body would be found (for, it would eventually be found somewhere stunning—as you deserve nothing but the best) and the _method_ of your timely execution.

(The pulsing, living artery beneath the pallor of your beautiful, slender neck calls to Him, but slitting your throat would have been _far _too easy, and making you drink poison would never be good enough—it would _never _be what you truly deserve for making Him feel the way He does about you.)

You always say He could never get close enough to hurt you, because you have a gun—but He has been close enough to hurt you the entire time—the shiver down your spine, the reason why you refuse to undress in the light—yet, you have _never _appreciated the life He allows you to live…have you?

_Have you? _

It could _always _be worse, just so you know.

He allows you to live, because while the temptation of your death is slowly dragging him down—drowning Him in a haze of red—you have become _way _too important to be tossed aside now.

You (much like Mr. Jane) need to finish the game started _nearly _eight years ago—and when you do finish…

_When you do_…

That temptation will no longer be dragging Him down into that haze of red. You _will_ die—and your beautiful, slender neck will be broken in two, and He will be released from the spell you have somehow managed to put Him under.


	6. Insanity Plea

**Title: **Insanity Plea

**Rating: **T

**Disclaimer: **Nope.

**Summary: **He never left his white room a second time.

**Characters: **Sophie Miller, Patrick Jane, Teresa Lisbon.

**Spoilers: **Season three finale.

**Notes: **

Thanks to Rach112, tromana, Aeidhryn, 4eva12FRee, and Lisbonfan23 for the reviews!

I've always loved Sophie Miller, so I was really excited to write this holiday fic for my good friend, x-Blueberry-Muffin-x.

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><p><em>Bad news never had good timing. <em>

_Heart of Life_, John Mayer

Sophie Miller hadn't expected to see Patrick Jane again.

It wasn't something unheard of, really. Most doctors never saw their patients again, and after their last "chance" meeting (which hadn't really been a chance at all, considering _she _had been the one to place the call)—she had never tried to contact him again.

Then again, Sophie Miller hadn't expected Patrick Jane to kill a man in cold blood either and she _certainly _hadn't expected to find Teresa Lisbon (the senior agent) on her doorstep, after an especially long day at the psychiatric hospital.

Teresa acted as if she had the weight of the world bearing down on her shoulders, and Sophie _knew_ in that moment, as she let the woman into her life (yet again), thatsomething bad had happened.

The conversation hadn't lasted too long; Teresa was a woman of blunt words—_Jane killed somebody he believes is Red John three days ago_—and had no qualms about asking for personal favors—_Jane needs your help. I'm afraid the courts will convict him, without either a ruling of self-defense or a ruling of insanity_.

Either defense would be tricky to prove, but only _one _needed her—a licensed psychiatrist—to prove a point.

So, she did what any good doctor would do.

She agreed to talk to him.

2—

_I can hear you pull me down. _

_Haunted_, Evanescence

Sophie hadn't expected to see Patrick Jane behind bars, a smile—deranged, if she _really _had to put a name to it—sprawled across his face.

_He has been silent since we first brought him in_, the guard had announced upon her arrival before opening his cell, and allowing her to step in.

Patrick doesn't glance up from the floor, and she cleared her throat. _Patrick? It's me, Sophie. _

His eyes focus on her—pupils dilated, and breathing shallow and his smile grows—cold, and sinister. _Hello Sophie, you are looking extremely beautiful today. _

The last time they had exchanged words, he kissed her cheek and she had feelings.

This time, she doesn't want to look at him. _Patrick, they are saying you killed a man. Did you? _

_Did I? _He responds in a child-like voice. _Did I? _The innocence is wiped clean from his voice. _You're the good doctor, you tell me_.

_This isn't you, Patrick_. She tried to reason.

_Oh, but it is! Sophie. _He cackled in pure delight, before he stood from his make-shift cot. _You shouldn't blame yourself, just so you know. Teresa had no idea either_. He darkly laughed. _It's a sickness, which must run its course_.

The idea that he believed himself to be a monster sickened him. Patrick Jane was a good man.

The Patrick Jane she had known was _not_ a monster.

3—

_Tomorrow might be good for something. _

_Unwell, _Matchbox Twenty

Sophie Miller hadn't expected to treat Patrick Jane again, but she did.

He never left his white room a second time.


	7. Short Hair

**Title: **Short Hair

**Rating: **T

**Disclaimer: **Nope.

**Summary: **"Are you trying to hint that I should get a haircut?" J/L-ish.

**Characters: **Patrick Jane, Teresa Lisbon.

**Spoilers: **None.

**Notes: **

Thanks to Agent ERA and Aeidhryn for the reviews!

Time for some Jane/Lisbon fluff? Yes, I do believe so! (A holiday fic written for Chiisana Minako)

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><p>"I still think you'd look good with short hair."<p>

Jane eyed her from the passenger seat of the CBI-issued SUV. Lisbon wanted to glance over at him, but her attention _needed _to stay on the traffic-jammed road.

"Are you trying to hint that I should get a haircut?" Lisbon questioned with a hint of disbelief in her voice.

Jane shook his head. "No, I just said you'd _look _good with short hair. I never said you _should _get short hair, as I obviously have no control over that." Lisbon didn't say anything, and Jane went to fiddle with the radio controls. "You shouldn't be upset with me for just thinking that you'd look good with it."

"I'm _not _upset," she informed him with a huff. "I just think that if _I _need a haircut, then so do you—a dye job might even help cover-up some of those graying areas."

"_Graying areas?_" Jane blinked. "I do _not _have graying areas."

"Yes, you do." Lisbon answered. "I'd point them out to you, but I'm currently driving." Jane merely tilted his lips into a smirk. "What?"

"I'm not the only one with a few gray hairs."

"Any gray hairs I have are because of you, just so you're perfectly aware." Lisbon explained, and Jane beamed before he glanced in the direction of her hair.

"Do _you _dye your hair?"

"What?" Lisbon questioned.

"Do you dye your hair?" He repeated. "Clearly, I'm around you for eight hours a day and you aren't exactly disagreeing to being the owner of gray hairs." Jane stared intensely at her hair.

"You're also a woman who enjoys appearing younger—not radically so, but enough dye jobs here and there to take the edge off."

"And _you_," she sniped. "Are someone who I imagine bleaching their hair."

Jane guffawed. "My hair isn't white! It's blonde, Lisbon! Do you need glasses?"

"White or blonde, you're still old." Lisbon teased, before she continued on. "And no, I don't dye my hair—it's naturally this dark, unlike yours."

"I've been kissed by the sun, Lisbon!" Jane argued, and Lisbon scoffed. "It's called sun-kissed blonde for a reason."

"I still think you've dipped your hair in bleach, but if you want to insist otherwise…please, be my guest."

"And I _still _think you'd look good with short hair." He repeated before he shot her an impish grin. "I know I'm not licensed in cosmetology, but I could always trim a few inches…"

"If you even come _near _me with a pair of scissors, I will..."

"Do what?" Jane asked. "Arrest me with the unlawful intent to prosecute hair?" He laughed at his own horrible joke, and Lisbon scowled.

"I will take a pair of scissors and cut off _your _hair."

"I'd actually attempt to make yours look good, Lisbon. It wouldn't look as if a lawnmower had gotten ahold of it."

"You're _still _not touching my hair or a pair of scissors ever."

And true to her word, Patrick Jane could never seem to find a pair of scissors when he needed them after that.


	8. Lost in Paradise

**Title: **Lost in Paradise

**Rating: **T

**Disclaimer: **Heh, no.

**Summary: **It's a twisted and bitter world you live in, isn't it?

**Characters: **Patrick Jane, Team.

**Spoilers: **None.

**Notes: **

Thanks to tromana, vanrigsby, TwilightLover-CarlisleandEsme, Gone2Far, Hitomi Star, and Aeidhryn for the reviews!

I'm _still _reposting my holiday fics, so this ficlet was requested by tromana with the prompt: "The People I should love, I hate. And the people I hate..." (Effy Stonem, Skins ep 1x08)/Patrick Jane.

* * *

><p><em>I've been believing in something so distant,<br>As if I was human._

-_Lost in Paradise_, Evanescence

* * *

><p>You lie awake and think of them sometimes in the dark, don't you? When you're all alone in that Malibu prison of yours; the bare air mattress on the floor and the sadistic caricature of your smile hanging over your head, painted in the life of your beloved wife and child—you think about her and her precious team.<p>

You can't help but think of them, really. The entire team—_your family_, as she so calls them affectionately—cares for and about you. It makes you uncomfortable, doesn't it? To lie awake at night and know that people _still _care about you after all the horrible misdeeds you've done, the death of your wife and child via your own egotism, and after all the people you've swindled or slandered.

You think you should hate them.

You _want _to hate them; for making you feel again, for making you human again, and most importantly, you _need_to hate them to protect them.

It's a twisted and bitter world you live in, isn't it?

You're supposed to love the people who love you, but instead you lie awake at night and you think of ways to push them even further away from you—of ways to keep them from the same fate that destroyed your very soul—the very fate that made you who you are today—a cold, broken, and haunted resemblance of the man you used to be.

In a way, you _must _love them.

You lie awake and think of them sometimes in the dark, don't you? You can sometimes see them lifeless behind your eyelids, can't you? Gutted like your wife and child—is that why you don't sleep? Do you fear that if you close your eyes, they will be taken away from you?

Do you fear that if you open your eyes for just long enough, you will be treated to your worst nightmare come true?

For selflessness can only do so much, and you are just beginning to understand the way of the world according to Red John's rules.

It's a twisted and bitter world you live in, isn't it?


	9. Howl

**Title: **Howl

**Disclaimer: **Do you really think that anybody should let me write the show?

**Warnings: **Character death.

Thanks to Rach112 for the review!

I wrote this as an angst-off with TropicalStormEmily months ago, and I had never actually gotten around to publishing it. So, please enjoy my own twisted brand of angst…

* * *

><p>The rising of your chest, is like the rising of the salty water that splashes into your half-lidded eyes.<p>

You are semi-conscious, and your limbs are tightly restrained—you try to open your eyes wider; the drifting sky is blue, _baby _blue. You ignore the lurching in your stomach—the tightness in your chest—as you comprehend the movement around you.

You have just enough time to question where you are, before the water swallows you whole.

* * *

><p>The taste of something metallic circles in your mouth and you work your coarse tongue against your cracked lips.<p>

You work enough saliva into your tongue, and you lather, rinse, and repeat.

You pull away.

That metallic taste in your mouth doesn't ever fade.

* * *

><p>You can feel the tight ropes cutting into your pale, chilled skin—the salt water aggravates raw skin.<p>

Then, you feel the pain—a stabbing pain, something _way _worse than a bullet piercing your fragile skin—and you cry.

And your cries fade into the roaring tides as you plummet down into the darkness.

* * *

><p>Your chest expands.<p>

You can't breathe.

You can't remember.

_Where are you? _

_Where is this?_

While the world spins—on and on—above your head.

Your chest collapses.

You can breathe.

You black-out, to the sound of your own cries.

* * *

><p>You never see it coming.<p>

Your frail body, bound to the floating piece of bloody lumber, floats along the churning river—the sky over ahead is blue, _baby _blue—and you continue to flow with the tide—down, down, down—while spinning—around, around, around.

You've been marked with death—both literally and figuratively.

You're heading for disaster with both eyes closed.

* * *

><p>You feel it, before you can see it; the collision that will end you.<p>

And then, you remember.

* * *

><p>The water slowly fills your lungs—<em>you had a case. <em>

Spots fill your vision—_it was Red John._

You try to struggle—_Jane was acting off. _

You are pulled under—_you confronted him, alone. _

You sputter—_he scoffed. _

Your chest spasms—_you used logic. _

Your head throbs—_he approached._

You hear the roaring—_you feel his arms around you._

You hear your heartbeat—_he brushed the hair kissing your shoulder aside. _

You see the darkness—_you don't think this is appropriate. _

You see the light—_his fingers dance across your collarbone. _

You taste the water—_you try to tear yourself away. _

You taste the blood—_he gets angry. _

You feel the pain—_you run._

You feel the calm—_he lunged. _

You smell death—_you swim in the darkness. _

You smell salt—_he stands over you with a syringe. _

You understand—_Red John is somebody close. _

You relax—_Red John has you. _

You inhale—_Jane is yet another pawn. _

You exhale—_you _will_ become a victim_.

You remember—_Red John is somebody close. _

You know—_Red John is somebody you trusted. _

You forget—_Red John is somebody you cared about._

You regret—_His hands stain you and break you. _

You die—_His name you take to your grave. _


	10. Chasing Fault Lines

**Title: **Chasing Fault Lines

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything.

**Rating: **T

**Summary: **If homesickness were the worst he could face, he would gladly accept the ultimate price. Spoilers for S4.

Thanks to Loes-chan, loveconquersallxxx, watchyouwalk, and tromana for the reviews!

I wrote this piece to fulfill my hurt/comfort bingo square of "homesickness" and so I could just write a team-centric piece!

* * *

><p>Glancing down at his cheap burner phone, Patrick Jane resisted his urge to call the CBI. <em>555-1048 <em>remained on the screen and with a tilt of his head; he downed the rest of his scotch in one setting. His eyes watered at the intense burning in his throat, as he lifted his hand and waved over another one. The bartender, a burly green-eyed fellow, eyed him in wayward sympathy before he set down another glass of scotch without a single word.

Once upon a time, Jane had hated alcohol; he loathed the sweet smell, the bitter taste, and the way it diminished his full mental capacity. However, alcohol had finally proved useful in quieting the thoughts within his head for the past two months. The bartender no longer tried to cut him off after six drinks, the single cabdriver nearby knew where he lived, and the hangovers only lasted three hours. In the _Crimson Hat_, drunkenness and the groping of scantily clad women was normal and Jane, undercover, was only trying to blend in when his hand (attached to his drunken body) had ghosted Lorelei Martin's backside earlier in the week.

The continuous excuse of drinking just to _blend in_ only extended so far, though. He had pulled the same drunken stunt with the CBI months ago by setting fire to the Red John files on the roof in a drunken haze, before sending a criminal into a coffin with a shovel. Back then, he had been trying to get closer to catching Red John (_and I'm still trying to get closer to him_, Jane bitterly thought with another swig of scotch) but for now, the amber-colored liquid was being used as an emotional tourniquet.

With the scotch still burning in his throat and a pull of the face, he cleared the number from his phone screen with a single finger. No matter how much he missed them and "home", Jane knew he couldn't call; contacting any of them, just for a brief moment of comfort, would ruin his entire undercover operation and getting closer to Red John would become impossible.

His stomach rolled slightly and instead of pushing the alcohol away, he merely took another sip and closed his eyes at the empty bar. Jane had tried to suggest his bouts of nausea away with deep breathing, but apparently, one couldn't wish the symptoms of homesickness away.

Eyes open again and nausea averted, Jane stared deeply into his scotch. He had last seen his friends three months ago and yet, the pain of leaving them all never got easier. A million questions kept burning in the back of his brain: How were Rigsby and Ben doing? How was Cho doing after his breakup with Summer? How was Grace faring for the one-year anniversary of her fiancé's death? Lastly, he inhaled sharply, how was Lisbon faring with his sudden disappearance?

If _anyone _had told him years ago that he would come to care about the individuals of the Serious Crimes Unit, he would have laughed in disbelief. Back then, Jane had only wanted Red John dead. Now though, he had people who he cared about (and who actually cared about him) other than just his need for revenge.

_"Let me help you_."

He almost groaned. Had the binge drinking not been enough to take Teresa Lisbon's last words to him away?

Jane downed his glass of scotch again, wishing he could undo his mistakes. He would only ever admit it to himself, but he knew he was in way over his head and he wished he had just accepted Lisbon's offer to help him. The slender brunette woman had never judged him and where she wouldn't or couldn't go, the rest of the Serious Crimes Unit would.

_They need to stay safe though_, he reminded himself with the appearance of another scotch, _Red John knows that I care and I can't lose them either. _

And whether anyone at the graveyard had realized it or not, the message Red John had Haley relay to him with her hand and mouth had been a warning. If he didn't give up or back down, Red John would kill all of them.

Although people often called him a cold bastard, he refused to let his nightmares become a cold reality. None of them would ever believe him, but he had already lost enough sleep over his decision to leave them all without a single goodbye. However, he knew he couldn't risk losing any more sleep over his fear of what Red John could do to them, especially if he came back.

For he, Patrick Jane, would gladly accept the continuing nausea, the burning of alcohol sliding down his throat, the effects of drugs within his system and the lingering emotions of depression to keep them all safe. If homesickness (if one could call what he was experiencing a form of homesickness) were the worst he could face, he would gladly accept the ultimate price.

After all, no one said being the "hero" and wanting revenge was easy.


	11. So Many Words

**Title: **So Many Words

**Disclaimer: **Nothing much has changed from 2012 to 2013, as I still don't own The Mentalist.

**Rating: **T

**Spoilers: **General spoilers for season five, specifically 5x05, Red Dawn. Set after 4x23.

**Summary: **She was only Ms. Teresa Lisbon, an unemployed workaholic. Team!fic.

I wrote this to fill my loss of job/income bingo square for H/C bingo.

Much thanks to Frogster and WeBuiltThePyramids for reviewing _Chasing Fault Lines_! You both are awesome!

* * *

><p>Playing with the fraying ends on her throw blanket, Teresa Lisbon mindlessly stared at the television screen. In a pair of gray sweatpants and a light blue shirt, she knew didn't look her best; but what did it matter? Nobody was going to come and visit her, as everyone else <em>had <em>a job.

_Of course_, she thought resigned, _this was going to happen again; it was only a matter of time, until it was permanent_.

After all, when one worked with Patrick Jane, job loss was always a possible consequence. His continuing quest to murder Red John had dragged her down yet _another _rabbit hole and in response, Gale Bertram hadn't reacted too kindly. With Luther Wainwright dead and Susan Darcy on psychiatric leave, nobody (aside from the team) had thrown up much of a fit about the permanent loss of her job.

_"You can be replaced, Ms. Lisbon." _Bertram had told her, after he had stripped her of her career. _"Good luck in all of your future endeavors, outside of the CBI." _His sweet smile, tinted with an edge of self-righteousness, had only reassured her that finding a new job would be nearly impossible.

And it was.

In the beginning, her record and reputation had been spotless. Teresa Lisbon had graduated from the top 10% of her class, she had been the _only _female under the guidance of Samuel Bosco, she had been the one to arrest William McTeer, and she had been the youngest woman to lead a unit within the CBI.

Back then, Teresa Lisbon had been a woman blessed with many opportunities. If leading the Serious Crimes Unit hadn't worked out, she had the chance to transfer out of the CBI and find another place of employment without any hard questions being asked.

All of that though, had been back _before _the Red John case had graced her desk. Back before Patrick Jane had caught her attention with his crumpled attire and general state of weariness that seemed to cling to him. Back before every excuse for why she kept him around was, _he solves cases_.

He did solve cases. Jane's placement within their unit had bestowed them with the highest closure rate in the CBI; but that success hadn't taken away her hearing. She knew the other unit heads thought she couldn't solve any case without Patrick Jane pulling at her pigtails, as the antics of the Serious Crimes Unit were wildly discussed amongst the other employees.

Often enough, she had passed their words off as petty jealousy. They could solve cases without Patrick Jane, without bending the rules, without stepping on the toes of law enforcement, but they _enjoyed _having his help; he was one of them, and they were a family.

_But you're not a part of that family anymore; you aren't Senior Agent Teresa Lisbon anymore_, a tiny voice reminded her and she grimaced. She was only Ms. Teresa Lisbon, an unemployed workaholic; a statement she both loathed admitting (even to herself) and knew contained an odd oxymoron.

The sound of her phone vibrating on her coffee table caught her attention and she leaned forward to claim the object in her fingers. It was almost midnight, which meant the text or call wasn't job search related.

_Grace Van Pelt _flashed across her screen. Without hesitation, she answered the phone.

"Van Pelt, is everything…?"

"It's not Grace, Lisbon." The voice of Patrick Jane interrupted her. She raised her eyebrows in response. Was he calling her from Grace's phone, because he thought she was _angry _with him for the loss of her job? "Between quitting my lousy paying job and standing outside your condominium building in the humid weather, I must have lost my phone _and _your address number."

Lisbon was speechless for a moment. Had Jane just said he had quit his job, one of the only things tethering him to catching Red John? Was the man _ill_? Instead of asking him to clarify his words, she merely rattled off her condominium number and stood from her couch to glance around the small room; her living room wasn't a complete disaster area, aside from a few water glasses scattered across the shelves.

"Open up, Lisbon." Lisbon heard from outside of her front door, before she crossed the small distance to the front of her home and threw it open to find the entire team, standing outside her doorway. "I hope you don't mind that I brought guests; don't worry though, they're still employed." The large smile on Jane's face made her wonder if his, "_they're still employed_" commenthad a silent, "_for now_" attached to it. She said nothing, as she waved her entire team into her home with a questioning glance toward Jane. "Now, I'm going to make a cup of tea. Does anybody want anything else?" Van Pelt, Cho and Rigsby shook their heads in response to his question.

She only rolled her eyes, watching the man saunter off toward her kitchen. He _would _be one of the few people, who could be both the visitor and the host within her own home. Carefully, she turned back to face her old team; all three of them had managed to make themselves comfortable on her couch.

"What are you all doing here?" Lisbon questioned. Nobody said anything. "Jane didn't drag you down here with some ill-constructed scheme to get my job back, did he?" The last ill-constructed scheme to get her job back had almost resulted in the suspension of _everyone _on the unit.

"We're here to make sure he actually apologizes." Cho finally answered her. Lisbon eyed him, nonplussed. Anyone around Jane long enough, knew the man tended not to apologize well; his _I'm sorry_ typically consisted of her gaining her job back, _after _he had meddled with the power players within and outside the CBI.

"Yeah." Rigsby replied in agreement, while she watched him nod. "We've been giving him hell for you."

Lisbon stared at them all in disbelief.

"Don't look so surprised, Lisbon." Jane's voice called from her kitchen and she turned to find him, leaning against her kitchen doorway wall. "I tried telling them that I apologized, but they all took things to epic proportions. I'm the innocent party in all of this, if I have to be completely honest." The wide smile still on his face told her otherwise, but she wasn't about to push the subject. Jane's antics weren't her entire concern anymore.

"Sure, you are." Lisbon gave back, dryly, before she turned to glance at her team. "Guys, Jane _did _apologize."

Van Pelt eyed her. "Did he actually say he was sorry?"

"Not in so many words," Lisbon said, as she brought her arms against her chest. "But he's Jane; not in so many words is his forte."

She heard Jane sputter from behind her. "I know how to say I'm sorry, Lisbon. Haven't you been getting my text messages?" Lisbon pinched the bridge of her nose. "I said I was sorry in every single one of them…"

"In different languages." Lisbon interrupted. "You said you were sorry in every language _but _English."

"I'm showing my diversity." Jane explained. Lisbon heard him approaching and she turned to find him sipping at one of her teacups. "After all, how often does one have the chance to apologize in different languages?"

"This is exactly why we're here." Rigsby responded. "Your so-called diversity isn't going to help her get a job, Jane."

"Obviously not." Jane agreed, taking another sip of his tea. "Whether Lisbon agrees with my method or not, I quit my job to help her find a new one." Lisbon furrowed her eyebrows. "Who knows? Maybe she'll even be able to find one with a better dental plan."

"Your concern for my teeth is touching, Jane." Lisbon answered. "But how is quitting your job beneficial?"

Jane beamed. "It's simple, really."

"Which means," Cho said, "it isn't simple at all." Lisbon watched Jane shake his head, before he set his teacup down on her coffee table with a flourish. He glanced back up at her, still with a smile.

"What if I told you I was starting my own business?"

"I would ask: what could you possibly know about starting or running a business?" Lisbon asked. Jane was an intelligent individual, but he didn't think things through; it took time, patience, contacts, and money to start anything within the business world. "And is it completely legal?"

"If you're asking whether or not I'm conducting a meth lab in my basement, Lisbon, the answer is no. I'm also not leading any underground prostitute rings, any spiritual cults to rival Bret Stiles and I'm not becoming a psychic again, as the shiny suits just aren't me anymore." Jane flashed his smile toward her and she rolled her eyes. They had all seen pictures of Jane as a psychic; the shiny suits, horrible ties, and bad hair hadn't worked for him then either. "The business prospect is completely legal; the documents I procured, even say it's completely legal."

"Documents?"

Lisbon watched Jane remove a bundle of papers from his jacket, before he handed them over to her. "Before you open those," he caught her eyes, "keep in mind that nothing is set in stone." She opened the bundle of papers and scanned them with her eyes, surprise forming across her face.

"How long?"

"Three years." Jane explained. "This idea started forming after you told me I'd be the reason for your job loss." He sheepishly shrugged. "I meant what I said to Madeleine, Lisbon; if you're happy, I'm happy. Being the reason for your job loss made me unhappy, so I did what I thought was right; I quit my job and bought a building." Lisbon smiled. Cause or not, his kindness _did _touch her. "You're my best friend. You couldn't honestly think I'd just let them toss you under the bus, without some sort of plan B. Did you?"

The thought had briefly crossed her mind, but she wasn't about to tell him that. "Thank you, Jane. I appreciate the offer, but…"

"I need a partner, Lisbon." Jane interrupted her. "After all, what would Batman have been without Robin?" Lisbon said nothing. "And it isn't like you have anything better to do. Think of all the good we could do as private investigators; it would be like old times, just with a better pay rate and better job security."

"He probably wouldn't be better behaved though," Lisbon heard Rigsby mutter and she couldn't help but laugh.

"I only ever misbehaved, because the justice system is full of red tape and safety scissors." Jane informed them all. "Have you ever tried cutting red tape with safety scissors? It's difficult and can cause blisters named Gale Bertram."

"The justice system is _not _full of red tape." Lisbon argued and Jane raised his eyebrows. Sure, there were _many_ criminals (Red John was the first criminal to come to mind) who deserved the death penalty and more; but it wasn't their job to dispense that kind of cold-blooded justice. They all couldn't be vigilantes with hidden agendas, after all. "You were also misbehaving long before Bertram entered the picture, Jane."

Cho and Rigsby nodded in agreement, before Rigsby spoke up. "You misbehaved _before _we all formally met, Jane. What was your excuse then?"

"I wanted to work with the best." Jane answered with a wide grin. "And you all, even though you refused to work outside the system at first, were the best of the best. The CBI made a significant mistake in firing one of their best agents; hopefully, they won't figure that out too late." Murmurs of agreement sounded from Van Pelt, Rigsby and Cho.

"We also held onto the Red John case." Cho added.

"That's merely a coincidence." Jane waved his words away. Lisbon almost felt the need to point out there was no such thing as a coincidence, especially when it related to Patrick Jane and Red John. "If coincidence isn't working for you, substituting the word technicality works too." She saw his wink and she smiled again. "You don't have to accept this offer today or even tomorrow, Lisbon, but an answer by Friday would be beneficial to setting up your exclusive insurance package."

"You and your odd insurance obsession." Lisbon muttered, while Jane chuckled in response. She stared at him; she did need a new job (her bank account could only support so much), but was she desperate enough to accept employment from _Patrick Jane _of all people to continue investigating others? Instead of giving him an immediate yes, which she (and probably he) knew would eventually happen, she merely continued to smile, "I'll think about it, okay?" She watched his smile widen. "But that doesn't mean I said yes, Jane."

"Oh, I know." Jane reassured her. "However, it means my apology _in English_ has been accepted."

Van Pelt opened her mouth and Lisbon shook her head. It just really wasn't worth the energy to convince Jane otherwise.


	12. Bones, sinking like stones

**Title: **Bones, sinking like stones

**Rating: **T

**Disclaimer:** I probably shouldn't own _The Mentalist_. I just torture characters and break hearts.

**Summary: **"You should just agree I'm right, Wayne. There is no such thing as right or wrong, black or white; the world should just be seen through shades of red."

For whatever reason, I was really in the mood to write about Rigsby. This piece is spoiler free, if you know who Ben is.

* * *

><p>Throwing his shoulder into the door, Wayne Rigsby refuses to sit around and wait. He doesn't know how long it will be before Red John appears to <em>welcome <em>him, but Rigsby hopes he and his friends are long gone before that. The door shudders under his brute strength, yet it doesn't give.

He tries again, only to curse at the sharp pain in his shoulder and he immediately puts an end to _that _escape plan. After all, what good is to anyone if he dislocates a shoulder or two? He sinks to the weathered concrete floor, furthest from the door and below the ominous-looking chains that hang on the wall.

Rigsby's locked in a little room with nothing more than his thoughts to keep him company; and he knows this isn't a good thing. From the earlier words of Red John's "friend"—if the man in the silver mask wasn't the serial killer, himself—Rigsby figures Red John has been planning the group abduction for a while and his stomach dangerous lurches.

He doesn't want to die. He's not ready to die.

He has a precious baby boy and Benjamin needs his father. Sarah's good with their son, but who's going to teach Ben about sports? About girls? About what it takes to be a family?

Shakily, Rigsby pulls out his leather wallet and stares at the vibrant photo inside with a smile. His little dark-haired babe was one and toothlessly grinning, his little chubby fingers wrapped around a stuffed dinosaur named Saur. He commits the image to memory and tries to swallow down the fear of never seeing his son again, as he hides the wallet in the folds of his clothing and keeps both eyes on the door.

Eventually, the door fades from his sight.

x x x

"You're not an agent," is the first sentence out of Red John's red-masked lips and Rigsby isn't too sure how to respond. He doesn't even know what to think, as he remains dangling—naked—from the set of chains. The pain in his pulled arms is unbearable, but he pushes through to concentrate on what the serial killer will do next.

Red John isn't alone in the room within him, and the staring makes him uncomfortable.

The two men (or women; he's not sexist) say nothing, as Red John continues with his ramblings. "You are not a father. You are not a man."

Red John's last declaration makes Rigsby chuckle, as he knows what gender he is. His name is Wayne Rigsby and Wayne _is _a man's name. But Red John's next words quiet him completely. "You are just a pawn in Mr. Jane's sick little games."

His mouth opens once to argue, but Red John continues. "It is quite rude to think about interrupting someone; you should be ashamed." He is anything but ashamed. "Close your mouth, you boar. I have no desire to see your tonsils, as enough of your body is on display for us all to see."

Rigsby closes his mouth, slowly and unsurely.

Red John turns on his heels, but not without throwing out one more parting comment. "You are not good, Wayne. You are bad for neglecting that poor son of yours, just for Mr. Jane's pointless endeavor."

In silence, he watches the door shut.

In silence, he continues to hang.

_I'm a good person_, he tells himself in the silence, _this isn't my fault. _

x x x

"You are not a man."

"You are not a father."

"You are not an agent."

"You are not a good man."

Rigsby hears the same phrases continuously; Red John tells him little else. He seeks answers about his friends, about how long he's been strapped to a friend, but the figure clad in red merely informs him he's bad for not asking about his precious son.

In the end, Rigsby just stops asking questions; he decides he doesn't want the answers that badly.

x x x

"You are wrong to believe that I'm wrong, Wayne." Red John's voice reminds him oddly of honey and his stomach protests at the thought of food. "I kill to make others see the light." He watches the masked man smile and Rigsby closes his eyes. "You see things wrong, Wayne. I took you, so you could teach Benjamin the proper way of things…"

Rigsby struggles against his restraints, his blue eyes open and narrowed at the mention of his innocent baby boy. "Don't you touch him, you sick son of a…"

"Language," Red John interrupts, coldly. "You are a guest in my humble abode. I expected much better of you, Wayne."

He knows he shouldn't feel it, but a small sense of shame floods his system.

"You are not a man." Red John starts in again. "You are not a good person…"

Rigsby tunes him out.

The words echo in his brain; he knows them by heart.

_You are not a good person._

_You are not a good father._

_You are only a pawn in these games. _

x x x

Red John has a set schedule, Rigsby figures out in the beginning of his stay. He never converses past condemning and shaming, but he brings sweet foods on every other visit; the tangy juices of a mango stain Rigsby's chin, because the killer's friend allowed him to have his fill.

"Thank you." He manages a few times, with the burst of goodness still on his tongue. Thanking a known serial killer for food is the _last thing _he thought he'd ever be doing, but he knows Red John could just starve him.

Red John's smile, which Rigsby can see from the mask's small slit, fills him with something; but he doesn't dare put a name to the emotion.

x x x

"You should just agree I'm right, Wayne. There is no such thing as right or wrong, black or white; the world should just be seen through shades of red."

x x x

"I am a pawn in Patrick Jane's games," Rigsby parrots, without much emotion. He's tired, hungry and the pain in his arms refuse to go away. He sways gently in his chains to distract himself from the deep shame in the pit of his stomach, as he denounces his so-called friends. "I was merely used by Grace Van Pelt." His heart thuds painfully (and wildly) in his chest. "Teresa Lisbon is wrong to believe you're wrong." He watches Red John nod. "Kimball Cho is not my friend."

His throat tightens. They're all his family, aren't they? The hunger gnawing at the pit of his stomach clouds his mind and he finds he can't answer his own question.

_What am I doing_? He asks after Red John has left. _And what am I supposed to be doing here? _

With his chin pressed against his bruised chest, he sobs, uncontrollably.

He can't take too much more of this.

x x x

"Your son turned three today," Red John quietly tells him.

Through his ever present cloud of confusion, Rigsby smiles.

"Thank you."

That night, he doesn't sob.

Instead, he dreams of his happy baby boy and the day daddy and son are reunited.

x x x

"It was my job to follow Patrick Jane," Rigsby offers up suddenly, after he's had his full of grapefruit. "Teresa Lisbon asked us to go along; she's my boss, I do what she says to keep my job. To keep…"

"Benjamin happy?"

Rigsby nods to Red John's question. "He's my son, my pride and joy. I'd do anything to keep him safe." He eyes Red John, wearily. "How is he doing?"

"He's sad, Wayne," Red John replies with a sigh. "He wishes he had a father." Guilt floods his system again and the mantra repeats.

_I'm not a good man._

_I'm not a good father. _

"But you can make him happy, Wayne." Red John halts his thoughts. "You can see him again when you realize you should teach him better. Learning Patrick Jane's methodology toward me will only get your son killed and we wouldn't want that, would we?"

Rigsby says nothing.

x x x

The red mask disappears one day.

"I'm not a monster, Wayne. I only want what's best for you and your precious babe. Never doubt that."

For the first time, Rigsby is presented with Red John's identity.

But he just doesn't care anymore.

x x x

Down from the chains and clothed in all white, Rigsby quietly admits he doesn't know why he's wrong.

"I only punished you, Wayne, because you abide by Patrick Jane's beliefs. I only keep you from your son, because they are your friends."

"I want to hold my son," Rigsby eagerly admits.

"Denounce them first, Wayne," Red John says. "Denounce those, who keep you from seeing your son." Rigsby is silent, listening to the words. "You have the power to be with your babe. Be with him; tell me what you truly believe."

x x x

Without hesitation, he rattles off names and names.

He even throws in the CBI for good measure.

Red John is pleased.

x x x

"My sweet boy," Rigsby mutters into his son's dark and soft hair, as he clutches him close. Ben doesn't cry. "I've missed you so much."

"Dada!" Ben gurgles, happily and Rigsby glances to Red John, who smiles gently.

"He said his first words, sir."

Red John approaches and places his hand on Rigsby's shoulder, the smile still in place. "That he did, Wayne, but we'll celebrate later." Rigsby nods, presses his lips to his baby boy's soft skin and blows gently. Ben laughs and Rigsby smiles along with him; hearing the laugh of his son makes him whole. "Now, however, I have a task that requires your full attention."

Rigsby kisses the top of his son's head, before he reluctantly passes him off to someone else. "Behave, Ben."

Ben gurgles again, until the room falls silent.

Obediently, he waits for whatever task Red John has given him with a bright smile.


	13. Cursed

**Title: **Cursed

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing.

**Rating: **T

**Summary: **If he has _CURSED _above his heart and Lisbon has _SAINTLY _above hers, then Red John must have _MONSTER _above his.

I wrote this for my H/C Bingo Amnesty card. My prompt was cursed!

* * *

><p>After the murder of his wife and child, he truly believes the word <em>CURSED <em>is emblazoned on his skin. The six-letter word, which means _damned _and _doomed for a bad ending _is written above his heart and there's really nothing he can do about it. He can't bring his beloved wife back. He can't bring back his little daughter, who was once so full of life.

Instead, he brings a razor to his wrists and laughs as he stands in the middle of their—his—barricaded bathroom. It's the same master bathroom, where he had once fucked Angela against the red door, only because she had simply wanted him to. It's the same master bathroom, where the crème floor tiles were becoming awash with the violent and vibrant color of red. And it's the same master bathroom, as he collapses into a heap of his own blood, where he'll die too.

But Patrick Jane—_devoted husband and loving father_—doesn't deserve the _easy way out_.

Someone saves him, long before he has the chance to bleed his life out.

::::

Through half-lidded eyes and his system being pumped full of drugs, his wrists are stitched and he's still breathing in a room of white.

He almost laughs at the irony.

He's too cursed to die; _yet_, he's too cursed to truly live.

So, he begins to plan.

He wasn't born into a world full of con men for nothing, after all.

::::

When he meets Teresa Lisbon for the first time, he wonders if she can see the word emblazoned on his chest. She looks at him, as if she knows there's something _wicked _about him and he's inclined to agree. Lisbon is a beautiful woman, he decides. He also decides that she's the complete picture of what he always thought saintly to be.

(He wonders if the reason she can see the word _CURSED _on his skin, is that she has the word _SAINTLY _on hers.)

He takes to calling her Saint Teresa in his head, but he only tells it to her face once. He wonders though, if she calls him Accursed Patrick in hers…because that's what he is. Defined by a six-letter word, just as he was before Red John.

He's a lost cause, but she takes him on anyway. It's what a saint does.

If she _can _read the word above his heart, he doesn't feel like he has to warn her about how it ends for everyone involved.

::::

When he was seven-years-old, his mother died and his father had said she deserved it for being a "cheap whore". His mother was anything, but a "cheap whore"; he had thought, trying to bleach the stained image of his bloody mother from behind his eyelids.

One night, many months later, his father had gotten drunk and had accosted him from his bed.

"If you just hadn't come along," Alex Jane tells him, slurring and jabbing his finger into his pale skin, hard enough to where the pale skin might bruise. "Your mother would still be here, and we'd be _happy_. You're cursed, Paddy. Cursed."

He doesn't say anything to his father, as he brings the man to his bed. His father sleeps off the alcohol, but he never sleeps off the word _cursed_.

::::

If he has _CURSED _above his heart and Lisbon has _SAINTLY _above hers, then Red John must have _MONSTER _above his. For anyone, who can murder men, women and a child in cold-blood must be a monster, someone who excites easily at the thought of destroying happy lives.

On his couch in the Serious Crimes Unit, when he isn't helping Lisbon solve cases or when he isn't pursuing Red John, he sometimes dreams of the monster. He dreams of a kitchen knife, dripping with the rubies of life. He dreams of a faceless Spector, who stands over and silently points at his chest.

When he finally awakes, sometimes in a sweat and sometimes with a look of panic across his face, his hands shoot to his chest.

His chest is fine.

His dreams, however, are not.

::::

Lisbon tells him, one overcast afternoon, that she doesn't believe the bullshit about him being cursed.

They've worked together for nearly eight years and he hasn't gotten any of them killed…yet.

He looks at her with a sad smile and tells her, how he thinks it will all end.

She smacks him, upside the head and they both laugh.

"Don't talk of such things."

"Yes, mom."

They both continue to laugh, as he drinks his tea and she sips at her coffee.

::::

When it finally ends, it doesn't end like a fairytale. There are no happy endings, no promises of a second chance, no singing and dancing, just a basement full of lifeless bodies and pools full of dark blood.

If it _was _anything like a fairytale, he believes, he wouldn't be the only one left standing.

He would be dead too.


End file.
